


the hands you put your heart in

by MelikaElena



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Compliant as of Season 3/Episode 3, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 06:25:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5956969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelikaElena/pseuds/MelikaElena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The words tumble out before Miller can register he’s saying them, “I always thought you’d have warm hands.” </p>
<p>No one could call Monty smug or arrogant in the least, but there’s a sort of self-satisfaction lurking in the smirk he levels at Miller. “Oh, yeah?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	the hands you put your heart in

It’s fall, which means it’s getting colder, but Miller’s still confused when he finds Monty warming up his hands at the fire. 

“Cold?” He asks, a trickle of a frown creasing his brow, as he assesses the smaller boy: Monty’s cheeks aren’t flushed, his dark eyes as steady as his long, slim hands. He doesn’t _look_ sick.

Monty turns at Miller’s voice and gives him a slight smile-- it’s small, but Miller doesn’t miss the way Monty’s eyes light up, revels in it, really. “Nah,” he says, holding up his hands. “It's just my hands.” Miller’s frown deepends, because Monty hastens to add, “It’s not a big deal; I’ve always just had bad circulation. It was worse on the Ark, really. All that cold, recycled air. It’s been better here, really.”

In his relief, the words tumble out before Miller can register he’s saying them, “I always thought you’d have warm hands.”

No one could call Monty smug or arrogant in the least, but there’s a sort of self-satisfaction lurking in the smirk he levels at Miller. “Oh, yeah?”

Miller doesn’t answer for a moment because he’s too busy internally berating himself. Being around Monty always makes him feel like he’s off-kilter, makes him act in certain ways and do and say certain things that catch him off-guard. And he’s had boyfriends before; shit, for all he knows he still _has_ one-- but he was still basically the same Nathan Miller around them. Not as guarded, perhaps, more open and relaxed, but. He didn’t grin widely, _stupidly_ , at small compliments; he didn’t sing along to pop-rock songs and _then_ (and then!) do some sort of interpretive little dramatic flourish along with it, _crooning_ to the (very cute) boy next to him and batting his eyelashes, holding onto his arm as he sang why he couldn’t make love to him.

Being around Monty brings out someone who Miller doesn’t necessarily recognize, but… that doesn’t mean that there isn’t a part of him, deep down, who _is_ that. Who wants to be _more_ like that.

“You’re,” and of _course_ , now the words won’t come. “In my mind… you’re always warm,” Miller trails off, lamely, feeling his cheeks flush.

But Monty’s smirk doesn’t deepen; he doesn’t even laugh. Instead, he _softens_ , his eyes crinkling at the corners. _Warm_ . As always, he seems to understand exactly what Miller’s trying to say. Or more importantly, what he _doesn’’t_ say. “There’s a saying, you know,” Monty says lightly, “about hands.”

Miller blinks. “What?” He asks, unprepared for the abrupt introduction to what undoubtedly is some awful euphemism, probably one Jasper told him long ago, in better, brighter days.

Monty clears his throat, looking faintly embarrassed at the implication. “You know,” he says, “warm hands, cold heart.”

Unable to help himself, Miller finds that he’s grinning widely. This guy is so goddamned _cute_ , he can barely stand it sometimes. “I’ve never heard it,” he says, the timbre of his voice rich with affection.

“Yeah, well,” Monty says, looking a bit stunned at suddenness and luminosity of Miller’s smile. “That’s only half of it. Warm hands, cold heart; cold hands, warm heart.”

“I must have good circulation, then,” Miller says thoughtfully, “my hands are always warm.” His lips quirk up at Monty. “That must mean I have a cold heart.”

Monty shakes his head, shaggy, silky strands flying. “Nah,” he says vehemently, “the saying doesn’t apply to you. You have the warmest heart I know.”

Before he can process what is, in Miller’s mind, a _blatant_ falsehood, Monty’s hands come out of nowhere and clasp Miller’s. Miller stills. Monty himself is like a bird, light-boned and slight, and at first that can be perceived as weakness, but his hands, slim and long-fingered, show otherwise, with a grip that is strong and steady, just like Monty.

Monty gives a little smile, sighs contentedly. “Perfect temperature,” he beams at Miller. “So much better than the fire.”

“Yeah,” Miller says, giving Monty’s hands a little squeeze. Miller doesn’t know it, but he’s smiling back at Monty, too. What he does know, though, is that the coolness of Monty’s hands feels good, actually. Better than good. “Perfect.”


End file.
